


First Fantasy: Prequella

by SkiesOverTokyo



Category: First Fantasy (Webcomic)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Plot, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-18 17:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21280142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkiesOverTokyo/pseuds/SkiesOverTokyo
Summary: Backstory. These kids have it. Some of it's good. Some of it's bad. And some of it they'd rather not think about.Prequel novella/series to the main bulk of First Fantasy. Set approximately 13 years before First Fantasy Chapter I.Updates Daily! (And will likely continue post NaNoWriMo). "Prequella" is the fourth album by Swedish hard rock band, Ghost.
Kudos: 1





	1. Exile on Main Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exile on Main Street; The Rolling Stones, 1972
> 
> In which our hero, with blood on his hands, and a price on his head, makes his bid for freedom.

No-one saw him leave, which, in a way, annoyed him.  
It wasn’t so much that it was overly safe to have made a grand exit, not with a bounty that would have bought a reasonably sized town house, on his head, but something about sneaking away, half hidden beneath the nets and tarpaulin and clutter of a small fishing boat-in the dead of night, no less-felt cowardly.  
In the half gloom he watched the only home he’d ever known slip away across the bay, the black peaks of the Imperial Palace jutting into the sky, the city, falling around it in messy, unplanned coils, like sloughed dragonskin around a shedling, beneath the cold winter stars. Despite the warm clothes-he’d made sure to dress well for his escape at least-he shivered, pulling the coat-his coat, he had to keep reminding himself-tight around shoulders too narrow for it to fit properly, and too slender to carry the weight of things done-and undone.

The minutes passed, the sound of the small crew shifting around on the top deck, voices indistinct, though a few words of basic, and a few more of one of the tiefling tongues that hissed and rolled like surf on shingle, filtered down to the back of the boat. He caught his name on the wind, and a few moments later, the tall orc that served as galley-cook and aftsman all but blocked out the retreating capital, a hand thrust down to pull netting and tarps and lobster pots away, and then to help him up.  
A strong, calloused, but somehow friendly grip

Tam Bargeld stood and watched the last lights of the life he’d known up till yesterday slide into the gathering seamist, until even the lighthouses of the Great Harbour were little more than vague shifts in dusk’s colour, and then turned, pulling his hood up for a few moments, so that the tears didn’t show, following the huge figure into the galley.

It was rudimentary, even for a ship’s kitchen, though, this being the first ship that Tam had ever been on in his short life, he had little to compare it to but the bottle-strewn kitchen back at the flat he and Maria had shar-  
Better not to think about Maria. The memories still hurt, still brought vividly to mind blood and screams and knifes in a backalley. Hand went to his coat, gripped the lapel, the leather already worn by her fingers, now worn by his, a shared little tic Tam didn’t even realise he’d picked up from her when she was stressed. It was where she felt most alive, in that worn, patched up jacket.

He found a seat, pulled down the hood, run a sleeve over his eyes to wipe away the streaked grime from his face. He wanted to ask the orc for a bowl of water, or a wet cloth so that he looked presentable, but before he could ask, the huge fisherman spoke.  
“So” rumbled the orc. Tam searched for a name, came up short, and simply hoped it came up in conversation.  
“You’re the Bargeld gasúrk, right?”

A nod, and the figure settled into a huge battered armchair across, pushed a bowl of something that smelt more strongly of the sea than the gentle waves passing by the door, and a hunk of roughly cut bread. He leaned back, so that the chair rocked slightly against the boat’s own movement, and reaching into his apron, withdrew a surprisingly delicate, if slightly bent set of knitting needles and electric blue wool, beginning to knit as he spoke, in a slow, deep voice.

“A bad business ya find yourself in, laddie, that’s a fact. I’ve no love for oathbreakers and turncoats” Here, he spat onto the floor, before continuing  
“but there’s a way to deal with men like that. And vengeance in broad daylight is not on’ of the smarter ones. But, lik’ I say, I’ve no love for a turncoat. My cap’n neither. And trust me, my amadánd gasúrk, there are many men an’ ladies who raise a glass to you, and against Merritus Stormbrook’s mem’ry t’night.”

Tam shrugged. Thinking about Merritus was painful too, in a different way. The smirk, the sudden turn in his gait, as gunfire poured from somewhere alongside the barricade. Frankly, it hurt to think about anything but the food he was eating-for all the smell, to have warm food, a proper cooked meal going down his throat, when he’d been living off rations, or stolen, half cold street food for months. When had he last eaten, anyway? Yesterday? The day before? Before that?

His vision blurred, and this time Tam simply let tears roll down his face, didn’t care who saw, didn’t care about pride or what the huge figure would say or think or do, tasted salt on his mouth that had nothing to do with the broth. A huge hand closed slowly, carefully on his shoulder, the touch of someone used to handling small, skittish and easily frightened animals, a grip that took Tam completely by surprise and made him look up.

A smile, showing several silver’d teeth, greeted him. The orc reached behind him, found a large blanket, and, reassuringly patting Tam’s shoulder, draped it around his shoulders.  
“Take it slow, gasúrk. Everyone makes mistakes. My dear ol’ diabhearth...my mother, that is, used to say to me, Garruk, you don’t learn from what you do right-that simply tells you what you already know. It’s from what you do wrong that you learn, that you understand yourself and where you can be a better person.”

Another broad smile, and then, from further up the boat, the clamour of a bell. Garruk clambered to his feet, brushing down his overalls  
“Get some rest, Tam Bargeld. You need it.”  
With that, he strode out of the room, to join the jostling voices. Tam simply stared at the space where the big man had been, words that no-one heard but him finally falling from his lips  
“What can I learn from what I did?”  
_That I’m not a hero._  
_ That I will never be able to go home, never be able to walk the streets that I know like the back of my hands_  
_ That I must keep running for my entire life, in case someone finds me._

Sleep found him, and dreams of blood and knives haunted him, before the pale light of a winter morning spilled in through the cabin door, and Tam Bargeld woke to his first day of the rest of his life, in exile.


	2. The Sinking Belle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sinking Belle, from Sunn O))) and Boris's Altar, 2006
> 
> Aboard the Sinking Belle

Tam came to the very quick realisation that he did not care for boats, sailing or, in fact, being at sea whatsoever; it was, he very quickly agreed with himself, only by a matter of necessity that his escape had been via water, rather than trying to make his way north across country. At least via water he could stay ahead of his own notoriety that doubtless was already spreading, together with wanted posters, across the empire.  
  
Because, in blunt terms, the sea was not, at least longterm, for him. He’d woken, groggy, tired, and stiff, and managed to wake up fully and access his surroundings before the first wave of nausea had hit. Whether he’d been carried last night by adrenaline, or whether the waves were choppier out here in the middle of the Great Bay, he’d spent the last hour hanging, head down, over the side of the ship, throwing last night’s supper up. When breakfast, a thick slice of nigh-blackened bread, a few night-caught fish of a kind that Tam had never seen at market before, and a large mug of tea, had finally been served, an event that brought the crew together for the first time since Tam had set foot on the boat, he’d kept it down through pure force of will.  
  
The crew numbered nine. He’d already met the captain, Abahronth, a skinny, weatherbeaten sea-elf with tattoos down his arms of kraken and other seabeasts Tam didn’t recognise, in a pub by the quayside, explained his situation, as best a panicking, blood-stained teenager can, and handed over a few handfuls of gald to keep questions answerless and crew none-the-wiser. A few minutes later, Abahronth, and another sea-elf who introduced himself at breakfast as Imashel, had loudly collected a few barrels and nets from their stores, complaining audibly for any townguards that cared to hear that one was far too heavy, and was meant to be empty, not full of lungfish.  
  
And a few minutes after that, the barrel lid had come off, and Tam had found himself deposited on the back of the boat and told to lie low until they were almost out of sight of the capital.  
Aside from the two sea-elves, and Garruk, who took up one entire edge of the table, there was a stocky dwarf who introduced themselves as Sigridottir Strongarm, the ship’s engineer and quartermaster, a pair of halfling brothers, the Mossmound brothers, who dealt with the logistics, sales, packing and transport of the catch.  
  
Opposite Garruk, the strangest of the company, a middle-aged dragonborn with wings, scaled dark red, who acted both as look out, and the ship’s muscle. She only arrived at breakfast, and once she’d eaten, disappeared again, without a word. The other lookout, a third and final sea-elf, and Imashel’s younger brother, Sarrbtuck, barely walked through the galley, his brother leaving briefly to take breakfast up to the crow’s nest. Tam barely saw either of them for the whole voyage, and his one pang of annoyance, once the boat touched in at the northern dock was not getting to know either of them better.  
  
Nearest Tam, on either side a skinny goblin girl who didn’t bother giving her name, but stuck a long-fingered hand out and introduced herself as “Gutter”, who dealt with the dirtiest, messiest jobs on ship, as well as repairs under Sigrid. On the other, the final member of the company, a human man with one bloodshot eye, the other covered by a surprisingly ornate patch, who swigged down mug after mug of black coffee, before introducing himself as Doctor Carver, the ship’s mage and doctor.  
  
Conversation rolled around the table, and Tam was, at least partly glad that he was barely the subject of it, other than a few introductions, and the Captain reminding his crew that they knew nothing about the boy, and for all they all knew, he’d stowed away without their knowledge in the fishlockers. This was greeted, almost universally, with laughter, and a ramshackle “cheers” from around the table, before the crew returned to what was, very much, the focus of conversation. This being, of course, the Merchant Guild’s infighting.  
  
“So, here’s the thing” Carver muttered between mouthfuls of coffee  
“If any other guild ever tried to do what they did a century ago, The Emperor would get jumpy. You remember what he did to the Mages…”  
“Wasn’t the Mages, it were the freemages” interjected Gutter, mouth full of toast  
“They ein’t the same. The Mages practically are a army, big one too. Now, the freemages on the other hand, that weren’t a fair fight. Like sending goblets against trained soldiers. It weren’t ever gonna end with nart but bloodshed.”  
  
A nod from Garruk, who placed both of his big palms on the table  
“That wasn’t a war, not really. No matter how The Emperor and Lord Hnifur painted it, no matter how many times they both tried to twist the story into being for the Empire’s protection.”  
He took a deep breath, and Tam felt himself somehow surprised that the colossal figure could look so shaken  
“It was nothing short of genocide. Hnifur particularly. He burnt entire villages of my people down, sold dozens of villages into slavery and servitude, and those he didn’t capture he forced south into something nigh-indistinguishable from it.”  
  
One of the Mossmound brothers pulled a face, nodding at the cook’s words.  
“These last ten years, since Lord Hnifur gained his position back on the Council, have not been good for anyone but humans. I blame Hnifur himself-I have no love for the Emperor, he’s no Mother-Under-Mountain, but it felt before _that man_ began to bend his ear, that the Empire was for everyone. Now…I’m not sure it’s for anyone but men. No offence, Doctor”  
  
Carver shrugged, downed the last of his coffee, and stood.  
“None taken. It’s not even just men…my profession, as a healer, it’s not something that the Mage’s Guild like existing. They would rather we all paid them for every little ailment and injury rather than a local medicine woman, or witch, or apothecary. Because anything they can’t control, scares them.”  
And with that he left, humming something under his breath.  
  
Gutter munched her toast, and turned to stare at Tam  
“So, you’re the poor bastaerd what stuck Snakey Stormbrook? Fair credit to ya, kid. Someon’ ‘ad to do it.”  
He met her gaze, those cat-slit irises looking at him with something resembling reverence. He shook his head, took the half-full cup of tea from the table, for something to do with his now shaking hands  
“I…shouldn’t have done it. Not really”  
A chorus of dissention from around the table, and Gutter half rose from her seat to face him  
“C’mon, kid. He betrayed hundreds of people”  
“He’s more a murderer than ya!”  
“I really…don’t think that’s the case, young man” intoned Abahronth, and everyone turned to face the captain, as he unhurriedly sipped the tot of whiskey in front of him, before starting on the freshly cup of coffee Garruk placed in front of him.  
  
Tam met the sea-elf’s gaze, eyes as blue, and as deep as the sea, as Abahronth continued, in his lilting tone.  
“Garruk probably gave you the peptalk about his mother, didn’t he? The usual old lady talk about learning from mistakes, not triumphs. It’s a bit boring, and it probably doesn’t help right now, does it?  
“Captain I must compl-“  
“Here’s something that does. You fight, or be killed. That’s what the world boils down to. We’re fishermen. We kill every day so we can fight to see another one, kill so our families can sleep that little bit easier.  
  
He leaned forward, and in the play of morning light and gas-lamp, Tam saw something in the sea-elf’s eyes that resembled that steely determination he’d seen so often in Maria’s  
“You didn’t die, so you fight. You fight till you find peace for everyone…” He spat on the floor.  
“Everyone that scum-snake-turncoat killed, no matter what they meant to you, and you fight till the breath goes out of you, and you close your eyes. What you did…”  
“What I did was cowardly…”  
“What you did, boy” Abahronth rumbled on “Was killing so you could fight on for those people. It ain’t heroic, it ain’t cowardly, it’s _necessary_. I don’t believe in heroes, boy, heroes are what little lords and ladies are brought up with, ain’t that right, Sigridottir?”  
  
The dwarf nodded, putting down their flagon of ale, and running a calloused hand over their mouth.  
“The Strongarms are a good family, as Sigridottir can attest. There’s one of them pretty much every bard knows a few songs about, Jonsson Strongarm, Jonsson the Builder, who built the trade roads under the desert. Humans probably _would _use the word “hero” to describe him, but the man is always more complex than the story. Jonsson was just a man who wanted to help his people, and found the best way to do it was under the sands rather than over them. ”  
  
“Y’always lose the flesh in the myth” put in Gutter, “Always. Used to be a bard ‘fore my family’s elder took offense, told me goblins ain’t ‘sposed t’ tell stories.”  
Abahronth jabbed a finger in Tam’s direction  
“So you’re not a hero, kid. But don’t let that push your head down. You’re a good man. Keep _that _in your head, and you might stay alive.”  
He rose to his feet  
“Now, you bloody horrible lot, there’s work to be done. You can bloody chit-chat when we’ve filled these bloody barrels and are heading for Fallinteth.”  
  
And with that, the first proper day aboard _The Sinking Belle_ began.


	3. Lonely Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lonely Sea, From The Beach Boys' Surfing USA
> 
> Gutter shows Tam the ropes.

Tam was surprised to find that Gutter remained behind, once the table had been cleared, becoming a makeshift office for the Mossmounds, as they plotted out a course that took the fishing ship through the most profitable areas, stopping at two of the colossal sea-going markets, before making land as the largest moon, Fredi, grew its fullest, a route that the captain had already, thankfully, explained to Tam.  
  
He was, however, even more surprised to find that Abahronth had, for the fortnight or so that the small ship would take to cross the vast curve of the bay, he would be under the most junior member of the ship, not that Gutter seemed the type to lord it over others. She was, however, a remarkably meticulous, and precise individual, especially for a goblin. Her role aboard the ship ran from preparing sections of the catch for particular customers, her knife even defter and pinpoint accurate than some of the master assassins in the Guild of Sundry Gentlemen, to repairs on sails, planking, rigging, netting and even clothing, her cramped room that adjoined the main kitchen full of garments in various states of repair.   
  
She, in short, seemed to do anything and everything no-one else on the ship wanted, or had time for, as she quickly explained  
“So.”  
She sat atop a barrel once she’d gone through the list of tasks for the day, reeled off at a dizzying speed that made Tam’s head spin and almost necessitated a dash to the side of the ship to throw up breakfast.  
“Suppose we should find you something a little less valuable to work in. I should have something in your size. Take it the jacket is valuable?”  
  
He nodded, and she hopped off the barrel, to walk around him, occasionally stopping to scratch her chin, and smooth down the oversized jumper she wore over a ragged shirt and breeches.  
“I’m guess’n’ not originally yours. It’s tailored for a lady, after all. One a lot taller and more muscled than yours. Friend?”  
“…something like that.”  
“I can make it fit better if you want? Limit I can do with the armholes; with sleeves I could do something, but without, gonna be difficult…as for the rips, your tail’r ain’t much good with leather. Want me to patch it up bett’r?”  
“I can grow into it. But…yes. Please. For the other thing. ”  
“Suit yourself kid. I’ll work on it in the evenings, make sure it’s under loc’key when you’re not wear’n’ it.”  
  
Tam found himself dressed in a similar baggy sweater, and trousers that he assumed belonged to the captain, once upon a time, though he was rather glad that at least Gutter approved the battered set of boots that he’d been wearing for months, still with a little of City mud in the tread. In fact, he found himself rather enjoying the goblin’s company, as morning slid, via a lunch of pickled herring and vegetable broth, into early afternoon, the sun pale in the wintery sky. For one, she was a good teacher, patient, and, aside from her attention to detail, making him redo a dozen hook knots till his and her ropework was indistinguishable, good humoured.   
  
She was, however, not one for slacking on the job. From the galley, she’d taken him on a tour of the ship, noting a number of repairs that the sails, rigging, wood, and interior of the ship needed, checked the stores, stopping back at the makeshift office to pass a note to Garruk that they’d have to get vegetables and fruits when they checked in to the first floating market. Then a second tour, to check the lines, floating crabpots, almost all of which dragged catch in the wake of the ship, including a juvenile sea-scraper, a colossal fish with a mouth like a pit of teeth. The lines and pots went back out, and they turned to the catch, and for the first time she chatted as she worked, her knifework deft, practiced  
  
“So, kid.”  
Tam looked up from the small pile of fish that he was gutting, ready to be smoked.  
“Deft hand wiv a knife ain’tcha?”  
“Something like that…”  
Her own blade flicked back and forth through the underbelly of a crab fully the size of a shield, slamming the butt of the knife down upon the hapless creature’s head to put it out of its misery.  
“You ain’t mucha talk’r, are ya?”  
Tam shrugged, a little irritated that he couldn’t _quite_ replicate the swish and flick of the blade, the efficiency of the movement. This goblin was keeping her own cards close to her chest, keeping her own history and ability as a fighter a secret till Tam played his hand. Well, nothing to lose…  
“I know my way around a knife because I had to earn a crust, to keep my head above water, because I had to, to stay alive. Because I used to be from the Sundry Gentlemen”  
  
A blink. She didn’t recognise the name, or was a master poker player with information.   
“Capital’s Thieves, Assassin, Highwayman guild.”  
“Huh. Seems risky to keep them three together. Which was you?”  
“Thief. Though I learned a little ‘bout the others. What about you?”  
She looked up from the lungfish she was beheading.  
“Hmm?”  
“Where did you learn to use a knife like that? That’s not something you learn from gutting fish, isn’t it?”  
  
A chuckle, and she wiped the blade down on her trousers, and resheathed it on her leg, standing up. Damn. He’d hate to play her at cards, if she kept even the most basic of facts about herself this tightly protected.  
“Righ’ on that part, Bargeld. As for th’ ‘hole sorry story, little too early, lil’too lil done for that tale. Especially as I usually need a beer or two on me for it.”  
Tam nodded, and finished gutting the small pile of crab, as Gutter dumped the rest in nearby barrels lashed to the deck, and dumped the remnants overboard, muttering something that Tam didn’t quite catch as she did so, before returning back to sit atop the nearest barrel, watching him work.  
  
After a few minutes of this, she spoke, voice a little softer than before.  
“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”  
The knife almost slipped in his hand and Tam dropped it with a clatter, looking up at the goblin, catching a look of pity in her cattish eyes.  
“You’re hesitatin’ when ya use the knife, you know. Not fair to hesistate. Give ‘em a clean death.”  
“I’m sorry. I’ll-”  
“You’ll get it back. Don’t fret it kid.”  
And with that, she nimbly stepped down, and picked up the knife, turning it over in her hands, before handing it back to him.  
“Nice knife. Keep it safe. Now, go get some coffee, kid. I’ll finish up here.”  
“How do you-“  
She winked  
“I just know. Now, get outta my sight, or I’ll make you stay and watch.”

  
She shooed him away, and with that, Tam found himself walking back to the galley, turning over in his head what she’d said. Gutter knew how to use a knife, and not in the way that a butcher or a fishmonger knew, but in a dangerous, deliberate way that made him equally in awe, and slightly scared of the goblin.   
_How does she know I’ll ever be able to use a knife like that again?_  
Who **is** she, anyway, really?  



	4. All of the Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the Lights, from Kanye West's My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
> 
> A festival hides a sinister enemy for a young Matias.

The city teemed with lights, and I, Matias D’Appia, walked among them, fearless.

  
For once, father had relented, let me off the leash like a falcon into a gentle summer breeze, free to spread my wings and relax from the daily regime of training and learning, even dumped a small pouch of coin into my hand. Free at last. Well, as free as father let me be, though he’d sworn blind he’d leave me, with work on his own plate. He was a bad liar, though a worse tail. Out of the corner of my eye, I occasionally spotted his short-trimmed pale blonde shot of hair, almost old-man grey in the light of lanterns and fireworks and all manner of flame and pyrotechnics. I was also sure that his two bondsmen wandered in that way that only a trained man can, at once nonchalant and poised, in parallel streets , and his trusted lieutenant Jimney a street in front, the telltale gleam of his mohawk-bald head pausing in front of a candy apple stall.   
  
I stopped myself, the smell of something spicy wafting across the street, and saw father duck into a side-alley in an attempt to hide. I loved him, but his stealth was as bad as his dancing, and it was almost amusing, almost a little game to see how many times I could spot him before he eventually either “happened” across me in the street or, as I hoped, gave me a little more space.   
Anyway, back to the task in hand.  
I turned to see what exactly had caught my attention, and found a stall selling something I vaguely recognised from one of the restaurants Father took me to to have long business meetings whilst one of his bondsmen distracted me with long stories of his exploits, or some gift or book that appeared out of their pocket with a conjurer’s poise and patter. I knew them as dragon’s tongues, a mix of spices, a large cut of chicken flash-fried, usually on a griddle, and then spooled on top of itself onto a stick and slavered in more hot sauce. They burnt my mouth, but I couldn’t get enough of them, the hotter the better  
  
This stall, however, called them simply spice-tongues, and the girl behind the stall, barely a summer older than me, still a couple from adulthood, seemed to be doing a roaring trade from them, the short queue jostling for position, even as I squared my shoulders. As I waited, I turned my attention back to the ink-black sky, as gold and green and red shot across it, exploded into a dandelion and shower and twirling wyrm of colour. Father had said on the way here that there was more explosive used every Festival of the Lights than any war since the Dwarves had brought gunpowder north, and I was inclined to believe him, what with the near constant rumble and whizz of fireworks overhead.  
  
That wasn’t the only light in the sky, however, with hundreds of lanterns, maybe thousands of them, let go from almost every level of the city, to float on through the night’s sky. Father said it was something about the dead, something about the day that they returned home, the day that mourning for a lost relative was brought to an end and their life celebrated as their lantern floated into the darkness, the fireworks a recreation of the many challenges that they’d have to face beyond the horizon. To a mere child, and an uncouth one like me, it was simply beautiful to watch.  
  
The queue shuffled forward, before, with a sudden yell, someone pushed against me, and I felt the tell-tale slip of a pickpocket past me. Not aiming for my pocket, but someone else’s. I never saw the deed itself but he’d definitely gone for the elderly, well-dressed woman behind me, as he pushed into the queue, folded his arms and growled  
“C’mon, kid. Move it. You can wait. I’m hungry. ”  
I wheeled, looking up and met the gaze of a young man with longish hair, a battered leather jacket over clothes that looked like they’d once been a Yahonese swordsworn’s outfit, the crests now unreadable, and a pair of swords sticking from his belt. In his mouth, an unlit cigarillo. He quirked an eyebrow as I glared up at him, folding my arms  
“Heh. Whatcha looking at? Get lost, brat. I’m not in the mood to humour snotty little gremlins like you.”  
  
I fixed him with that stare my father often used for people who one has to treat with _verbal_ , but little actual, respect, took a step forward, already aware that perhaps five or six yards in each direction I had an ally, my father nonchalantly munching popped corn as he cast an eye over the scene. I drew myself up to my full, if still quite meagre height:  
“Can’t you queue like anyone else?”  
“Huh? What the fuck’re you talking about? Do you know who you’re talking to?”  
He stepped closer, sliding almost lazily into a fighting stance I vaguely recognised from the book part of my father’s teaching on blades, one that no clean fighter used.  
  
I took a step closer myself, letting my jacket fan out. I knew exactly where my short knife and the small but effective war-hammer hung, perfectly placed to drop into my hands in a blink of an eye, and stared him down   
“You’re a rude man. Whatever clan you are, or were from, you’re making your ancestors ashamed with-”  
“Fuck if I care. I have only one clan, and it doesn’t _need_ a badge. You made a mistake, kid. A real big one…”  
  
Suddenly, his arms seemed to flick inside his jacket.   
Ah, _this_ stance.  
I ducked as the jacket, and his overshift flew past, barely sidestepping as he used this as a diversion to charge me. A few inches taller and he’d have caught me full in the face with a flying elbow. He turned, wooden clogs on the cobbles, and I gasped.  
His entire upper half, practically to his wrists and chin, were covered in tattoos-dragons, sea-wyrms, carp, eagles, a few aesthetically pleasing demon and human skulls here and there, dotted as one might arrange flowers. And then he turned, moving into a stance where he practically had his back to me, even as the crowd shrank away. I spotted Father, leaning on a barrel, still eating, still watching.   
  
A firework roared overhead, shading the entire scene deep, almost bloody red, and stripped of the gloom, in blacks and reds, I saw his back.  
And across his back was-  
Oh.   
Oh no.   
_This was bad_.   
The fact was, this town didn’t really have a government. It was a strange mishmash, a hardy creature on the edge, not quite part of the Empire, not quite part of one of the cur-whipped vassal states they let pretend was independent. As a result, neither truly wanted to govern it, and both assured the other, from their consulates deep in the heart of the city, that they were in charge. Who was actually in charge, politely, were gangsters.

And I was looking right at one, as the huge double carp of Clan Atsuo flexed across the man’s back, from one of the worst Azakuyi, as these gangsters called themselves, factions in the city.  
“Well,” hissed the swordsman. “Now I’m pissed.”  
His entire form spun to face me, and a smile slid to his lips, as he stepped forward, fluidly sliding into another stance, the laziness gone, the Azakuyi utterly focused and very, very angry.   
“And you, little rat, are about to face the blade of the Kingfisher, Kitano Suzuki. Prepare yourself. Perhaps, prepare your lantern, for my blade will send _you_ home to your pitiful ancestors.”  
And then he charged.  
  
  



	5. Fire Up The Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire Up the Blades-Three Inches of Blood album (2007)
> 
> Matias has a little fight
> 
> NB. For reasons that will eventually become apparent, I use they/them pronouns for Matias.

In my eyes, where fireworks crawl across the sky like they’re strolling down the street, in the gaze of a time-mage and a swordsman as I, he drifts like ink across paper, tattoos and sword, and long hair flowing across the blood-red street and my dear, wonderful Matias, short-sword appearing as if from air itself, rises to meet him, in the matching guard. I’m no man of culture, much prefer the rough and tumble of boxing and wrestling and the calcio, but this, staring at the two fighters as they seem to shift through space like uqiyo, is art.

I almost forget to breathe. I still never quite get used to this.  
And then time rights itself, like someone has suddenly let go of the other end of a catapult and time now speeds back to where it belongs, and it’s a flash of swords, moves, counter moves, blocks, stops and even a little of Matias’ paladin powers, a flicker of blue on the edge of sword and hands and hair, as the sword seems to find blocks no normal hand could reach back for. 

Kitano, the Azakuyi, fights like a cock, fast and dangerous, using his height, longer reach, and fury-and he has lots of the last one-to rain a veritable avalanche of blows down on Matias, back and forth, talons out, all flying feathers and preening movements as he slides between stances. He’s getting nowhere, the sweat beginning to bead on his brow. He’s used to fighting other cocks, quick flashy fights where the first blow is usually the last, and the second always is, certainly used to carrying a sword to execute and intimidate and strike as a last resort.

Samourai, Azakuyi, Ronin are not used to fighting in the Northern Style, not used to the crash and bang and attrition of a battlefield, where men knock bells out of each other with broadswords, where a man can take a hammering and stay up. They’re fast, lightly armoured, and in the mud and slog, they may be a perfect tool to prise a tough nut open and slip a clever blade in where a good old claymore just bounces off, but in a one-on-one like this, he’s doing this well to hold his own. Must tell Matias to watch their stance, push their advantage next training.

Matias, for their part, is like a crow, dodging here and there, frustrating the tiring cock-bird, blocking every slash and blow with an alarming amount of ease, the Azakuyi getting more and more frustrated, wilder and wilder. Of course, I knew exactly why Matias was letting this peacock frustrate himself. The blue manifested itself in sparks at first, flying off from particularly fierce clashes, although practically every block was becoming a fierce clash as the gangster pushed himself harder and harder, swinging like a wild animal to try and find some opening.

And then a firework bathed the scene in blue.  
It faded, but the blue remained.  
And it was coming from Matias  
Who stood iridescent blue, from practically head to foot, the paladin’s flame fully evoked.

Now, here’s the thing.  
Most paladins, they pray to a God, or Goddess, or something their faith is attached to.  
Not Matias  
They’re kind of…well, a special case.  
I’ve only come across another paladin like them once, and that man practically runs his own kingdom somewhere beyond the great Southern Desert now.

Matias is powered by their own self-belief  
Simple as that.  
Terrifyingly so.  
The more confident they get, as this fool is about to find out, the more powerful they become, and it’s almost amusing to watch as, whilst he slams his katana into her blade time after time, Matias is simply standing there.  
Well  
Was standing there a second ago

Because by now, Matias has leapt, landed, one foot on his face, and launched again, to five or six metres in the air, rising like flame into the night’s sky.

And come down, other foot, slides, blade down, and practically sends the man spinning down the street to crash into a wall. 

And the gangster sprawls into the dirt, as Matias sheaths their sword, and catches the falling money purse, turning to hand it to its rightful owner in one almost show-off spin. Down but not out  
Staggers to his feet, and bellows, at the top of his lungs  
“YOU’LL REGRET THAT, KID. THERE’S NOWHERE SAFE IN THE CITY NOW.”

And he is gone down the alley, leaving chaos in his wake.   
I turn to Matias, who is munching something they’ve bought at a stall, and grin  
“Well, this trip just got interesting. You need to work on your footwork, by the way.”  
A nod, and I sigh  
“But well done. We’ll make a damn fine paladin of you yet…”

And overhead, the fireworks boom and flicker and rumble on into the night.


End file.
